


let the world around us just fall apart

by ShowMeAHero



Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [9]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Because it's true, Eddie Kaspbrak Deserves Better, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jewish Richie Tozier, M/M, Married Life, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Sickfic, Therapy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, glad that was already a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 15:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21322774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShowMeAHero/pseuds/ShowMeAHero
Summary: The first time Riley sneezes three times in a row, Richie watches as Eddie instinctually puts the back of his hand against her forehead. She just looks content to be there with him as he presses his hand to her cheek, then her back, feeling her breathe.“Hey, Dr. K, what’s the prognosis? She gonna make it?” Richie asks, and Eddie jumps, like Richie caught him doing something wrong.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: as the ghost begins to bleed [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493912
Comments: 37
Kudos: 525





	let the world around us just fall apart

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to the Eddie Kaspbrak Deserves Better Campaign!! let's get this man some healing energies!!!
> 
> also, i was NOT kidding about the tooth-rotting fluff. i got incredibly sentimental and sappy while writing this so it's really emotional and tender!!! do not judge me!!!
> 
> Title taken from ["Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3wxyN3z9PL4) by Starship.

The first time Riley sneezes three times in a row, Richie watches as Eddie instinctively puts the back of his hand against her forehead. She just looks content to be there with him as he presses his hand to her cheek, then her back, feeling her breathe.

“Hey, Dr. K, what’s the prognosis? She gonna make it?” Richie asks, and Eddie jumps, like Richie caught him doing something wrong.

“She might have a cold,” Eddie says, looking her over. “We should probably get her baby… aspirin.”

“Okay?” Richie replies, confused at Eddie’s slow finish and frustrated expression. “We can do that. That’s easy to do, Eds.”

“Am I overreacting?” Eddie asks. Richie sits down next to Riley and Eddie on the floor, stretching his long legs out in front of himself.

“Ah,” Richie says.

“What?”

“Babe, it’s okay if you’re nervous,” Richie tells him. Eddie furrows his brow, looking back down to Riley and her little music toy on the floor.

“I’m— Every time she coughs, I think, _ What if it’s whooping cough? _ Or, you know, what if it’s— Maybe it’s cancer, or she has leukemia,” Eddie says, talking a little bit faster, “or, or, she’s caught something when we took her to the playground, and I _ know _we shouldn’t have taken her to that playground—”

“Whoa, whoa, Eds, slow down,” Richie interrupts. Eddie glares at him. “No, it’s okay. I know where you’re coming from.”

“What the fuck do you mean?” Eddie demands.

“Eddie, I remember your mom,” Richie reminds him. “And, tragically, I’ve also met Myra. I know you’ve been working through it in therapy, but it’s gonna pop up.”

Eddie’s quiet for a second, eyebrows pulling together as he looks down at the floor. “Richie, I… I— I don’t know if I’m getting better.”

Richie frowns. He remembers what his own therapist told him, that he has to think through things before he says them when they’re things he finds meaningful, and so he tries to decide exactly how he wants to word this instead.

“You are getting better,” Richie says slowly. Then, he says, “I know sometimes it doesn’t seem like that on the inside. But I’ve been watching you from the outside and I’ve never been more proud of you than I am lately, Eds.”

Eddie shakes his head, looking away. “I’m not sure I deserve that.”

It’s so, _ so _ difficult not to just give in to his desire to make Eddie laugh instead of being serious with him. Instead, though, Richie manages to say, “You deserve the world, and besides, it’s not about what you do or don’t _ deserve. _ It’s, like, your brain. Everybody deserves a good brain and a good life, especially someone like _ you.” _

“Someone like me?” Eddie asks.

Richie leans his chin in his hand. “You’re working so hard. I’m _ watching _ you work hard. Eddie, your mom— I don’t even know where to _ start _with your fucking mom. It’s a miracle you let people touch you.”

Eddie huffs a laugh, then rubs at one eye with the heel of his hand. “Stupid shit.”

“Not stupid.” Richie reaches out and turns Eddie’s face towards his, his fingers gently wrapped around his chin. “Hey. _ Not _stupid.”

Eddie nods. Richie hopes that his message sinks in.

When he’s woken up by Eddie screaming in his sleep in the middle of the night, he knows there’s only so much words can do. He leans over and puts his arms around Eddie, pulls him close and says, “You’re okay, I’m here with you.”

Eddie’s screaming dwindles down into whimpering, then starts ramping back up into crying. He gasps, and his eyes fly open, and Richie pulls his face in so it’s buried in his neck.

“Richie?” Eddie asks, shuddering, still crying, seeming bewildered.

“It’s me,” Richie tells him. Eddie’s arms wrap around him hesitantly, then tighter, digging his fingers into Richie’s back.

“I had a dream about my mom,” Eddie gasps. “I had a dream— I had a, a nightmare about my mom, it was a nightmare, we were in the pharmacy and she was rotting, she kept screaming my name and she— she had you and, and Riley was there—”

“It’s okay,” Richie tells him. “Your mom’s dead, Eds.”

“She was,” Eddie says. “She was, but I _ saw _her— She— Audrey—” Eddie gasps again, reaching for his chest, then his throat. “I can’t— Richie, I can’t breathe.”

“Hey, Eds, you’re okay,” Richie says. He pulls Eddie in, puts his chest against Eddie’s back and drapes himself over him like a heavy blanket, wrapping him up in his arms. He presses his palms over Eddie’s scar and holds him there, steady. “I have you. You feel me?”

“Yes,” Eddie breathes. He’s still wheezing, but his breath isn’t coming so fast now. Richie’s heart, however, is pounding. “Are you okay?”

“Baby, you focus on _ you,” _ Richie tells him. Eddie huffs an unamused laugh. “You spooked me, that’s all. I’m all good.” He’s probably going to cry in the shower later when the adrenaline dies down, but that’s just how he processes things lately. “You dipshit, figures you’d be asking about _ me—” _

“It was such a horrible nightmare,” Eddie murmurs. He’s quiet for a long moment, then he turns around, tugging Richie back down so they’re horizontal and facing one another. He ducks his head down under Richie’s chin and curls up there. Richie rubs his back, trying to remain calm. “She kept— Just fucking _screaming _at me, just fucking _screaming, _saying that I’d killed her and that I’ll kill you and Riley and Audrey, too, if I didn’t— if I didn’t keep you safe.”

"We're safe," Richie says. "And you know why?"

"Why?" Eddie asks.

"Because we're good parents, Eds," Richie murmurs to him. Eddie shakes his head. "We _ are. _You especially."

"Richie—"

"I'm serious," Richie tells him. "So fucking serious, Spaghetti Man."

"Lends credence to your seriousness," Eddie tells him.

"As well it should." Richie lays his hand along Eddie's face, running the pad of his thumb under Eddie's eyes. "I'm telling you, you're the best dad I've ever seen, and I've met, like— Stan's dad."

Eddie laughs a little bit, sounding a little wet and teary still. "I'm so scared I'm fucking it up."

"You're not," Richie assures him. "You're _ not. _ You're not your mom, Eds. You're _ nothing _like your mother. You're working so hard to be nothing like her."

"I think exactly like her," Eddie confesses in the darkness. Richie can see his face, the whites of his eyes, the downward turn to his mouth. He runs his thumb along the seam of Eddie's lips.

"How do you know?" Richie asks.

"Because I don't want to go outside sometimes," Eddie admits in a rush. "Because I— Because sometimes it takes _ everything _ in me to let you go places without me and act like it's okay. Because I look at Riley and Audrey, and I think that they'll be safest if they just stay with _ me, _ but I can't do that, I _ can't, _I know that."

"You _ do _ know that," Richie agrees. "That's how I know you don't think like your mom, Eds. She thought all that stuff about _ you, _and then she did it anyways. Would you lock Riley in her room because she didn't take cough medicine?"

_ "No," _ Eddie spits. "Fucking of _ course _not, what kind of a question is that?"

"Baby, you are _ Eddie Kaspbrak," _ Richie reminds him. "You are not Sonia, you are not Frank, you are _ you, _ thank fuck, because you're the greatest person I know and the _ only _one I'm willing to co-parent with." He presses them closer, says softly, "I trust you, Eddie," even though his whispers won't wake Riley and Audrey up if Eddie's screaming hadn't.

"Why?" Eddie asks. Richie's never really thought about _ why _ he trusts Eddie, he just _ does. _It's more natural than most everything else in his life. It's easier to trust Eddie than it is his own fucking brain; Eddie's judgment, he trusts implicitly.

"Because you're you," Richie tells him, and hopes it's enough, hopes it's clear what he means by that. "I… Eddie, it was… inconceivable to me, when you died."

"Rich, you don't have to," Eddie tells him, because Richie's mentioned a few times how much he hates remembering the time when Eddie was dead. He does, he hates it more than he hates most everything else, and sometimes it feels like the shadow of Eddie's death looms over him day in and day out.

"If anyone deserves to know, it's you," Richie says. It's true. He's been thinking about it for a while. "C'mon."

Eddie follows him, lets Richie sneak them both out of their bedroom and to their kitchen. Richie grabs a blanket off the living room sofa and brings it to Eddie, and he curls up in it on the breakfast bench. Richie makes them both cocoa with powder from a tin and hot water from the water filter on the faucet.

"Do you ever think… Like, _ fuck," _ Eddie says, _ "I have no idea what I'm doing, and now there's— _ God, Rich, now there's _ two lives _dependent on us. We don't have any idea what we're doing."

"Nobody ever knows what they're doing." Richie slides onto the bench and folds himself up next to Eddie. Eddie opens the blanket, and Richie curls into the warmth of him. "Eddie, when I lost you, I just— in a very real way— had no idea how to live without you."

"You lived without me for almost thirty years, " Eddie reminds him.

"That was different, fuckwad, I didn't know I was living without you," Richie says, unable to help himself. Eddie smiles, hiding it behind the lip of his mug. "I had an Eddie-shaped hole in me—"

"You still do."

"Saucy," Richie says, "but not my intention."

"For once," Eddie says. Richie pokes him on the nose.

"Let me be sappy to my husband," Richie scolds playfully. Eddie quiets and, for a moment, Richie just strokes his hair. Then, he says, "I would've done anything to bring you back. If the ritual I tried hadn't worked, I would've tried another, and another. Eddie, I would've died before I stopped trying to see you again."

Eddie shakes his head. "Rich."

"It's true," Richie tells him. "I don't think you understand how you're it for me. You've always been it for me. I fantasized about taking you to prom for _ years _ before prom even _ happened, _ Eds, and I didn't even get to _take _you. If I thought I'd ever get a chance to marry you, I would've fantasized about it more. I thought about it enough as it was. Eds, I just— There is no me without you."

"There is," Eddie says. "You lived."

"Technically," Richie replies, all in on honesty now. "I was a shadow of myself, I just… The Losers can tell you. Regardless, though, Eds, just— The mere thought of you thinking you're not good enough, that you're turning into your mom or something when I look at you and I see the person I know better than I know myself, Eds, babe, I just want to—" Richie buries his face in Eddie's hair. After a moment, he says, "You're always keeping me safe just by being here with me. I always know what to do when I'm with you."

Eddie allows it for a moment before he whispers, "That's not true and you know it, sweetheart."

"I try so hard to be sweet and kind to my beloved husband, and this is the thanks I get," Richie complains. Eddie tips Richie's face down and connects their lips.

"Thank you," Eddie says.

"Tell Rita," Richie tells him. Rita is Eddie's therapist, the one he sees twice a week right after Richie's appointments, in the same office with Dr. Abrams, back-to-back.

"I will," Eddie promises. He tucks his head back down into Richie's chest. Richie lets him fall asleep, and then channels his last remaining burst of strength into bridal-carrying Eddie back to their bedroom.

* * *

It all peaks when Richie catches a cold. He's not surprised that he's caught something, only surprised how long it's taken, because Eddie spends most of his work-from-home workdays trying to figure out how to open and operate a car service in the world of Uber and Lyft, and so Richie usually ends up doing errands and outdoor activities in the mornings before he has to be at work.

Richie touches at least two dozen things a day out in public that Eddie would probably hose him down over, but when Eddie's not there, it's easy to forget. He catches the cold only a couple of days after he took Riley and Audrey to the park on a slightly chilly morning so, really, it could've been anything. He sniffles when he wakes up, and Eddie's on high alert; he sneezes, then groans, and Eddie's right at his side, feeling his face, then running his hands down to his throat.

"What's wrong?" Eddie asks heatedly. He's never quite managed a clinical detachment like doctors have. Richie assumes it's because Eddie's _ not _a doctor, and a lot of his medical "experience" comes from his mother, so. His bedside manner has a more frantic energy than anything else.

"Just a sniffle," Richie assures him, and doesn't try to kiss him, because it'll just give Eddie a crisis. "Don't worry about it."

"Well," Eddie says, then stops. "Well— Okay. But, _ but, _I'll get the girls ready for breakfast, you just— go shower, scrub yourself down."

"Aye-aye, Dr. K," Richie agrees, and does as he's asked. He turns the shower all the way up in the hope that the steam would clear his sinuses, and it works for about two minutes before it stops. He shivers once he's out of the shower, a cold sweat breaking out across his skin.

"Uh-oh," Richie says audibly.

"What'd you say?" Eddie calls from the other room.

"Nothing!" Richie shouts back, which irritates his throat and sends him into a coughing fit. He only gets half a minute into the coughing fit before Eddie's wrenching the door open and guiding him to sit on the closed toilet seat lid, wrapping him in a towel and feeling his forehead again.

"You're sick," Eddie states. "Call, say you're not coming in."

"Eds, it's just a cold, I—" Richie starts to say, but Eddie glares at him, so Richie just says, "Yeah, yup, sure, I'll stay home."

"Thank you," Eddie says. "And don't— Don't touch either of the girls, okay, we— Don't want them getting sick, too."

Richie stops himself from reaching out, hands stopping halfway towards Eddie. Eddie only hesitates for a moment before he kneels down and pulls him in to hold him, letting Richie bury his face in the juncture of his neck and shoulder. Eddie rubs his back, and Richie sighs.

"Call and go back to bed," Eddie instructs. Richie nods and does as he's told, calling and pulling on his pajamas and crawling back into bed. Audrey's out of her bassinet and, when Eddie comes back with a Tupperware container, Richie asks where she is.

"I moved her and Riley out for now until you're better," Eddie says. He pops open the Tupperware container and pulls out a thermometer. "Now open up, let's see how bad it is."

It's really not that bad, only a couple degrees higher than normal, but the fact that it's not _ at _normal clearly disgruntles Eddie, who then makes Richie rattle off anything that could potentially be considered a symptom while he sorts through the medicines in the Tupperware. Finally, he seems to land on one he deems suitable, and he measures out the liquid medicine into its little measuring cup meticulously.

"I promise, it's not that tragic," Richie says, before he swallows the medicine down. Eddie examines the little cup and seems to decide it's good enough, because he starts putting it all away.

"We don't need it getting worse," Eddie says, which is something Richie remembers him echoing a lot when they were kids, but he doesn't comment on that. He snaps the lid back on the Tupperware container, then looks Richie back over again with a critical eye. After a moment, he sits down on the edge of the bed near Richie's broad shoulders and lays his hand along the side of Richie's face, along his cheek.

"Hey," Richie says. Eddie thumbs under his eye, across his temple up into his hair. He gently pushes Richie's hair back from his face.

"Hi," Eddie replies."Just… Stay here. Until you get better, okay?"

"Okay, Dr. K," Richie agrees easily. Eddie leans down and kisses Richie's forehead, which is far more than Richie expected to be touched, before he leaves Richie alone. Richie's _ terrible _ at being alone, so he grabs his phone and shoots off a message to the Losers group chat — _ dead but in a more fun way: how i made the common cold uncommon by richard w. kaspbrak. _

Eddie's the first one to reply. _ Go back to sleep, Rich. _

Richie smiles, then locks his phone and sets it aside. He does as he's asked, shuts his eyes and buries himself in Eddie's pillows because they smell so warmly like him, so sue him, and finds a fitful sleep. A _ truly _fitful sleep, of hazy half-dreams and semi-wakefulness and tossing and muttering and turning and coughing. When he wakes up again, the room is bright and it feels too humid. Richie throws off the blankets, then shivers. He grabs his phone to check the time and sees notifications for the Losers chat from everyone but him. He unlocks his phone and starts to read the messages, and his door opens a crack.

"Awake?" Eddie asks tentatively.

"How the fuck did you do that?" Richie asks in return, blearily shoving his phone on the nightstand.

"Saw you viewed the messages." Eddie shuffles in and shuts the door softly behind himself. When he comes over to Richie, he looks pale and drawn. He pushes his hand onto Richie's forehead again, but the earlier tenderness is all but gone. He puts his palms flat against Richie's cheeks, then slides them down to his throat, feeling along the soft skin under his jaw.

"Will I ever be able to live my normal life again?" Richie asks, faux-dramatically. Eddie frowns, returning his attention to putting the back of his hand against Richie's forehead again.

"Maybe it's a flu," Eddie murmurs to himself. He looks over the room. "I should probably disinfect everything in here—"

"Definitely don't need to do that," Richie tells him. “I haven’t even begun to touch everything in here yet, wait until I’ve got my germs on everything.”

Eddie shoots him a glare, even as he reaches out and carefully detangles a knot from Richie’s hair with his fingers. Once it’s loose, he pushes the hair back out of Richie’s eyes, then stays there, quiet, rhythmic, stroking Richie’s head over and over again like he’s a dog he forgot he’s petting. Richie doesn’t move, at first, just lets Eddie do it. After a while, he leans into the touch, and Eddie scratches at his scalp.

“I don’t want the girls to get sick,” Eddie tells him. He tips Richie’s chin up and looks deeper into his eyes than normal. Probably checking his pupils. “I want— I mean. Will you—” Eddie groans. _ “Motherfucker.” _

“Sound it out,” Richie tells him, turning onto his side so he can curl around Eddie where he’s sitting. He buries his face in Eddie’s lap. He knows how hard it is for Eddie to verbalize these things, these feelings he has a hard time even processing, let alone actively putting into words. He gives him a minute of frustrated silence before he says, “I won’t judge anything that comes out of your mouth. Doesn’t matter what you say to me.”

“It _ does _ matter what I say to you,” Eddie argues. “It matters most what I say to _ you. _ I don’t want to say the wrong thing and— and make it seem like I’m still neurotic, I’m _ not _ that neurotic, I’m _ fine—” _

“You’re _ not _fine,” Richie interrupts. Eddie shoots another glare at him, more heated this time. “Fuck, Eds, neither am I. Neither’s Bev, neither’s Mike. We had some hard fucking shit happen to us when we were kids, babe. Not just the clown shit, but the parent shit— The shit that your mom did to you, arguably worse than anything Pennywise ever did.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eddie says quietly, but he looks slightly less angry when Richie rests his cheek on Eddie’s thigh to look up at him, so Richie counts it as a win.

“I do,” Richie says. “Fuck, I’d take a _ thousand _motherfucking clowns before I saw your mom or either of my parents ever again.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. It’s not entirely humorless. Richie turns his face into Eddie’s legs and wraps one arm around his waist. Eddie cards his hand through Richie’s hair again.

“Me, too,” Eddie agrees. “Well, what I fucking _ wanted _to say before you got all emotional on me—”

“You _ bitch,” _Richie laughs.

“—is, do you _ mind _staying in here today, so you don’t contaminate the rest of the house?” Eddie asks. “It’s a fair request because, one, we’re not sure if it’s a flu or a cold, so, two—”

“I’m sure you have a very long list of very good reasons, but I’m just gonna stop you there and say yeah, I’ll stay in here,” Richie answers. Eddie’s body twists, but Richie doesn’t have time to look up before he realizes it’s because he’s folding in half to kiss the top of Richie’s head. “Are you gonna wash your face when you leave the room?”

“No,” Eddie says, sweetly. Too sweet. Richie’s suspicious. “I’m gonna wash my whole goddamn _ body, _you disgusting barnacle—”

“And _ there _it is.” Richie kisses Eddie’s thigh, then pulls back to drop his head back into the pillows. The movement makes him feel more congested than he already did, and he groans, covering his face with his hands. “Suck the sickness out, babe.”

“Disgusting,” Eddie comments. “Why don’t you just check one of your stupid fucking spellbooks for a cure?”

Richie removes his hands so he can lift an eyebrow at Eddie. “And rid myself of needing Dr. K’s assistance—”

“You’re a fucking _ fiend,” _ Eddie spits. “Have you even _ checked?” _

“I thought it’d be important,” Richie says. “For you to, uhh. Process.”

Eddie stares down at him, and Richie’s not sure if he’s mad or not, which is a feeling he’s not used to. He’s pretty sure it’s because _ Eddie’s _not yet sure if he’s mad or not, and he’s still deciding. So, Richie does what he does best, and keeps talking.

“I figured, there’s no point in me just magicking away everything,” Richie says. “You’ve seen _ Click. _Adam Sandler ruined his life that way. So, I thought, if I just let myself be sick instead of trying to fix it with — I guess, otherworldly means? Instead of using otherworldly means, I decided to just deal with it, and I thought, if I do that, then maybe Eddie can use me as practice.”

Eddie still looks like he’s deciding whether or not to be mad. After a little bit, he says, “You’re not my therapist.”

Richie’s heart sinks. “I know.”

“Or my doctor,” Eddie adds. “Or my psychologist, Rich.”

“I know,” Richie says again. “I’m sorry.”

Eddie’s quiet for another second before he says, “Thank you.”

Richie nods against his pillow, and Eddie leans over him, kissing him on the forehead again. He doesn’t move back right away; instead, he lingers, tipping his face down so their foreheads were pressed together. Richie lifts his chin a little bit and wiggles onto his back so he can see Eddie’s eyes properly.

“I want to be better,” Eddie says, “than I am.”

“There’s not a _ better,” _ Richie tells him. “You’re not _ bad _ now. You’re healing. That’s all.” Richie reaches out, tangles his hand in Eddie’s shirt over where he knows his huge knotted scar is. He knows the scar better than he knows parts of his own body, so he pushes his fist into it lightly, still gripping his shirt. “This shit? This shit is _ nothing _compared to the fucking work you’re putting in to heal from your mom.”

Eddie nods, then lifts his head and looks away, huffing a wet laugh. A tear slips down his cheek, and he shakes his head, shutting his eyes and tipping his head down. “It doesn’t always feel like that.”

“Fuck everybody else,” Richie says. “It’s just you. Just you and what _ you’re _ feeling, Eds. You’re _ healing. _ It hurts, and you’re doing it, and I’m so— I can’t tell you how proud I am of you, Eddie. That you fucking— It wasn’t fucking enough for you to relearn how to walk, and speak, and all that shit. You’re relearning how to fucking _ live, _ dude. Your entire _ life. _ Do you know how insane that is, that you— You left Myra to come back to Derry, and you fucking— You’re the reason we killed Pennywise, you know that? And then you— Babe, you _ died. _ You had to relearn _ everything, _ and you didn’t— You didn’t fucking go back! You didn’t say, _ Oh, it’s so much easier if I just go back to the way it was— _ No! You said, _ Fuck the way it was! _You—” Richie stops, realizes he’s been getting louder and faster and more exuberant. “I— I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” Eddie interrupts, turning back to Richie, tears staining his face. Eddie, as a rule, tries not to cry, despite Richie’s many urgings to Eddie to _ lean into your emotions, Eds, come on, Rita will be so proud, _ so this is big, that he’s just openly crying in front of Richie right now. Richie reaches out, and Eddie folds into him, curling up against him on the bed. Richie sniffles, and Eddie groans, “God, that’s so _ gross.” _

“Love you,” Richie says. Eddie shakes his head, rubbing his face on Richie’s shirt as he does. “I mean it.”

“I know,” Eddie says. “I didn’t— I never thought of what you thought of me doing this. I just did it. I just… I don’t know. It felt like the right thing to do.”

Richie rubs his back. “See,” he whispers, “you can feel it, too.”

Eddie’s quiet. Richie keeps rubbing his back, up and down, Eddie curled up under him like he’s seeking comfort, or warmth, and Richie’s ready and willing to give him both in spades. He always has been, always will. He remembers so many nights spent like this, when he and Eddie were nine and when they were seventeen and every age in between. Nights when Eddie and his mom would have screaming matches, huge falling outs where Eddie would slam the door and lock it and call Richie crying, and Richie would abandon whatever he was doing to bike as fast as he could to Eddie’s house. He told the other Losers he got good at climbing trees in the Barrens, but he got good at climbing trees from the obstacle course that was the Kaspbraks’ back yard, just to get onto the roof and through Eddie’s window.

It had been worth it every time. Richie thought so then, and he thinks so now, as Eddie’s slowing his breathing under Richie’s touch, calming down. The fact that Richie’s sick and Eddie’s letting him touch him right now is a miracle that a nine-year-old Richie — and, arguably, even a seventeen-year-old Richie — could never have predicted. He _ wanted, _ but he never thought they’d _ have _it. Things seem so black-and-white, when you’re that young, and everything’s the end of the world. Living through the literal (almost) end of the world, for Richie, put things into sharp perspective. He knows what he wants now.

“I love you so much,” Richie tells him. “Remember when we were kids, when I’d climb in your window and read comics with you under the covers? I always wanted to be doing this.”

“We hugged,” Eddie says.

“Never enough,” Richie says. “Eddie, I was in _ love _ with you, you gotta understand that. In _ love _ with you. From the _ day _I was born.”

“Drama queen,” Eddie whispers. “Say it again.”

“I’m in love with you,” Richie repeats. “I have been for my whole life, and I will be until we die, and then even after that. In whatever fucking afterlife, in whatever the Turtle does to us. I don't care if it's fucking purgatory, Eds. I'm never gonna lose you again."

Eddie nods, all pressed up against Richie like he is. "I love you. I wanted this, too."

"Did you?" Richie asks.

"Something like it," Eddie answers honestly. "I wasn't sure what I wanted. I never thought clearly enough about that part of my future for that. I didn't want anyone to touch me, but when… I don't know. When _ you _did, it made me think, you know, maybe it's… not so bad."

"And is it?" Richie asks. Eddie pauses.

"No," he says. "It's not so bad at all. You're not as gross as you were then. For starters, at least now I have verification that you actually do shower."

"Ugh, Eds, I bare my teenage _ soul _ to you and you tell me you didn't think I showered?" Richie smiles into Eddie's hair. "I took at _ least _one shower a week—"

"See, that's _ exactly _what I was afraid of," Eddie tells him, and Richie pushes him onto his back so he can dig his fingers into his sides and kiss him on the throat.

"You're healing," Richie says again. "It's a process. What the fuck is Rita always saying?"

"Recovery isn't linear," Eddie answers. "You should be resting, Richie."

"I _ am," _Richie insists. "Recovery isn't linear, Eds."

"I'm not sure that applies to colds," Eddie tells him, but he lets Richie keep biting into his throat anyways. He lifts his head, so Richie lifts his, and Eddie kisses his cheek before pushing him off. "The girls were asleep, but I want to check on them anyways."

"What a doting father," Richie comments. He snaps his teeth at Eddie as Eddie climbs out of bed and straightens out his shirt. _ "Such _a turn-on."

"You're such a fuckhead," Eddie tells him. He presses one last kiss to Richie's forehead. "Rest. Get better. We can talk more later."

"Oh, we _ will _talk more later," Richie says.

"Never really a question, with you," Eddie tells him. "Sleep."

"Okay."

"Shut your eyes," Eddie orders. "I don't believe you."

Richie grins, but he obediently removes his glasses and shuts his eyes. He hears Eddie snap the light off, then the door clicks shut softly behind him. Richie fully intends to grab his glasses and shoot Eddie a text — maybe antagonizing him, maybe just saying he loves him, he hasn't decided yet — but the bed's still warm where Eddie had been laying, and it smells so strongly of him, even through how congested Richie is. It lulls him, before he realizes that it is, and he does actually fall asleep.

He wakes back up sometime later, when the room is a little bit darker, less natural light coming through the windows. He can hear footsteps in their room, and his instinctive response is fear, before he opens one eye and sees Eddie pacing softly back and forth on the other side of the room. Richie is about to lift his head and say something when he realizes Eddie's holding Audrey while he paces, head turned down to look at her, bouncing her as he goes. Richie stays quiet instead, listens to Eddie muttering softly to Audrey, only catching random words here and there. Richie can hear Audrey's breathing quiet from sniffles, then deepen into sleep, and he shuts his eyes when Eddie turns around to carefully lay Audrey down in her bassinet beside Richie's side of the bed. He sits down on the edge of the bed, then, next to Richie's chest.

"I love you, too," Eddie says softly, and Richie's chest aches. He wonders if he's ever missed any other confessions this way. "I loved you then, too. I just… I didn't know what it meant, feeling about someone the way I felt about you." Richie feels a hand lightly brush his cheek before it ends up stroking his hair back from his face with a touch so feather-light that Richie realizes, with a pang, that Eddie's definitely done this before. None of this would wake Richie up on a regular night. "I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner."

Richie is about to respond when he pauses. He doesn't want to lose this any more than he wants Eddie to lose this. If Eddie needs to come and talk to Richie when he thinks Richie can’t hear, he should be able to. Richie doesn’t want to take that away from him. He keeps quiet. Eddie keeps stroking his hair lightly for a couple long, slow minutes before he sighs. He kisses Richie on the forehead and stands, leaving the room. Once the door clicks shut behind him, Richie rolls onto his back and looks into the bassinet where Audrey’s sound asleep. He lays one hand on the edge of the bassinet and just looks his fill for a second before he shuts his eyes again.

**Author's Note:**

> You can talk to me on Twitter at [@nicolelianesolo](https://twitter.com/nicoIodeon) or on Tumblr at [andillwriteyouatragedy](http://andillwriteyouatragedy.tumblr.com/).


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